


Never look less than your best

by try_reset (technorat)



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Developing Relationship, M/M, Makeover, Makeup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-16 17:40:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7277590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/technorat/pseuds/try_reset
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The General allows himself few extravagances.</p><p>One of those few extravagances, just so happens to be cosmetics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never look less than your best

Something calls to him. Ren doesn't know what it is--( _The Force, surely?_ )--that draws him to reach out as the General walks by him.

  
  


Ren's arm shoots out, gloved hand reaching to caress Hux's cheek.

  
  


Something about it had been wrong--too soft, nearly a liquid—and Ren's glove comes away dirtied, a peach fluid dripping down three of his fingers. “General?” he calls.

  
  


And Hux bristles like an angry cat. “Have you no sense of boundaries, _Lord_ Ren!”

  
  


There, on his face, where Ren had traced, exists Hux's naked flesh. It is the same color, mostly. Freckles, thick and dark, bloom on Hux's face. Ren finds himself mesmerized, staring at Hux through the mask, barely breathing.

  
  


The General is more human than he allows himself to appear.

  
  


“Have you nothing to say for yourself?” he hisses, turning on his heel and returning to his bedchamber.

  
  


Hux's appearance ranks slightly higher than the need for him to be early on the bridge.

  
  


Ren shakes his head, breaking the spell. The Force around Hux had turned so dark and deep and lovely at Ren's touch—the power of the General's fury and indignation. How sad that Hux had not been born Force sensitive; he'd surely make for a strong Sith.

  
  
  


The General allows himself few extravagances.

  
  


One of those few extravagances, just so happens to be cosmetics, Kylo learns.

  
  


The General's fresher is crowded with small jars and bottles and tubes containing the small _treasures_. They're imprinted in a number of languages, from multiple planets, from multiple stops the Finalizer had taken in her history. Some of which have been used more often than others.

  
  


Ren reaches out and picks up the first bottle he sees, holding it up to the light.

  
  


The bottle is made out of glass. A fluid, that matches Hux's complexion so perfectly, is contained within.

  
  


Ren unscrews it, finding the top to also be a dropper. The bottle is only half full of the cosmetic; it is something the General favors, then. He puts it back where he finds it, finding the bottle to be too light and too fragile to be handled. If he broke it, surely that'd be a worse offense than trespassing.

  
  


“And what have we here?” Hux says, exhaling through his nostrils. Even in this light, his skin looks smooth and poreless. _Perfect_ , Hux's mind supplies; he always has felt the need to look—to _be_ —perfect. “Lord Ren?”

  
  


He reaches out, unable to stop himself, and traces Hux's cheek with a glove-less hand. The other man's skin is as smooth as it looks but the cosmetic Hux layers on top does not budge.

Hux's cheeks flush red, even through the makeup; he steps back, hands clenching at his sides. Even within his gloves, the pressure presses against half-crescent cuts, leftovers from earlier that day.

  
  


“One would not expect you to splurge on something such as your _beauty_ ,” Ren says, haughty. An imperfection in Hux's nature, something that he could exploit. Finally, finally, Ren has been looking for something to exploit, something to make his co-commander seem more human.

  
  


But Hux does not take it as an offense. Rather, he fires back, “Would you rather I hide underneath a _bucket_ like yourself?”

  
  


“General,” Ren acknowledges, furious, slipping past him and out of the room, hand striking the wall, feet too harsh against durasteel ground. It's not a victory, but Ren thinks it comes close.

  
  


“Don’t break my ship,” Hux calls.

  
  


It is very much Ren’s ship as well. He’ll break it if he pleases.

  
  
  


It's later then, two standard weeks later, when Ren is assigned a mission.

  
  


On a backwater planet, free of both mask and cloak, he finds something that would suit the General's fancy.

  
  


One dealer, a withering old woman, whose faded eyes are still lined with dark strokes of a liner, smiles at him, catching his eyes. She picks up the package, a small box with several bars of powder. Names are written underneath in Basic. The colors are vibrant and metallic—stuff that the General did not own and would not dare to wear while on active duty.

  
  


“You have a good eye,” the woman offers, handing him the strange package.

  
  


He accepts it.

  
  


“Go on,” she encourages. “See for yourself. The colors are highly pigmented and formed without the use of parabens.”

  
  


Ren assumes that this is a good thing. He runs a finger across one of the colors, a vibrant pink, and it comes away metallic and glittery. Without another thought, he finds himself saying, “ _You have already paid for the cosmetics,”_ with a wave of his hand.

  
  


The woman blinks twice and repeats his words, still smiling so sweetly. “You have already paid for the cosmetics, dearie.” She pats his arm, once, twice, before Ren is able to slip away, unnoticed by others.

  
  


The palette, as the woman had called it, is secured snuggly underneath Ren's tunic, and one corner digs into his ribs.

  
  


The mission, if his small excursion is to be excused, goes exactly as planned.

  
  
  


“What is this?” Hux says, easily overriding the outer lock to Ren's chamber. He's walked in, hair still done back neatly, uniform still pristine, the present Ren had left him in one hand. The Force around him is unsettled, but not agitated.

  
  


Curious.

  
  


Hux steps closer, stepping into Ren's personal space, not at all afraid of him. “What is the meaning behind this?” he hisses, staring up into the blank slate of Ren's mask.

  
  


(Only seconds before Hux barged in had Ren been able to slip it on.)

  
  


“There is no meaning, General,” he says, casual, voice deepened by the vocoder.

  
  


Hux does not throw the small, rectangular container, but he does open it. Even in the low light of Ren's room, the shadows gleam. “Then why is it that you found this to be an appropriate thing to leave in my private bedchambers?”

  
  


Ren pauses, waits.

  
  


The only sound in the air is the General's breathing, heavier than it should be.

  
  


“Do you not like it?” he asks.

  
  


Hux scowls, but does not answer.

  
  


The Force ripples.

  
  


Despite his scowling and yapping, Hux _likes_ the gift. But he would never dare admit it, not to Ren's face. Never would the General allow himself to speak of how _pleased_ he is with the gift, just because of the giver.

  
  


Underneath his mask, Ren grins toothily.

  
  
  


He wakes up suddenly and all at once, jolting up and out of his bed, crashing to the floor. His long legs had gotten tangled in the sheets. His body aches where it had impacted the floor.

  
  


_Snoke has immediate need of them both._

  
  


Ren dresses hurriedly, tossing on clothes that had been left forgotten on the floor. He nearly falls, pulling his shoes on before finding his helmet and throwing it on again.

  
  


_The General is needed as well._

  
  


So Ren dashes to the General's quarters, snugly located within a five-minute walk from the bridge. He does not bother with knocking or waiting; Ren overrides the lock himself and walks in.

  
  


“Ren!” Hux yells, freezing where he stands.

With one hand he holds the makeup palette that Ren had gotten him. The other hand clenches the handle to a brush. Without a thought, Hux throws it at the intruder.

  
  


Ren freezes it in place with the Force and steps closer.

  
  


“You've... you've used the cosmetic?” Ren says, stepping into Hux's space.

  
  


Hux is missing his greatcoat and is diminished because of it. His uniform is—has always been—padded, for the sake of appearances. And his eyes, such a delicate green, are bordered by metallic pink, only further enhancing the enchanting color.

  
  


Kylo exhales, only amplified through the vocoder.

  
  


The General, he admits only to himself, is rather _cute_.

  
  


( _Not cute,_ another part of him screams. _He's killed billions._ )

  
  


“Well come now,” Ren says, placing a guiding hand on Hux's back and shoving him—gracelessly--into the fresher. “The Supreme Leader has urgent things to discuss with us, Hux.”

  
  


Hux picks up a cotton pad and pours a new liquid onto it—this one clear and sweet smelling. A cleaning agent. Dutifully, Hux wipes it against his eyelids until all of the pink coloring is gone. He tosses the used up pad into the bin.

  
  


His lips are pursed, cheeks no longer pink from embarrassment.

  
  


“Ren,” he says, exasperated, “you could have sent a message via holocom.”

  
  


But he did not.

  
  
  


Ren has never liked formal galas.

  
  


He dislikes the heavy, dark tunics and matching trousers he's been given. He dislikes the shoes, new and gore-free, that have been delivered to his room. He _hates_ walking around, barefaced, as snobbish politicians and officers pay each other backhanded compliments.

  
  


“No lightsabers,” Hux clicks at him, not looking away from his own preparations as he stands in front of the fresher's mirror.

  
  


Ren shakes his head and detaches the lightsaber from his hip, where it sat so naturally.

  
  


He's already dressed himself in his white formal uniform and is applying cosmetics to his face. The pale peach liquid dries easily on his face, making him look baby-cheeked and flawless once more, covering the freckles that are so dark and many otherwise.

  
  


He layers a darker powder underneath his cheeks, making them look sharper, more defined.

  
  


Hux's hands are momentarily free from their gloves and Ren sees that they too are freckled.

  
  


“What is it you are doing?” asks Ren.

  
  


Hux's room is no different from the room of any other officer. From the hall, it opens up into a sleeping chamber. A small desk and office chair are pulled into a corner, recent additions. Ren seats himself on the neatly made bed and feels how it shifts underneath his weight.

  
  


“Contour,” Hux replies dryly.

  
  


They fall silent once more. Ren picks at the sheets of Hux's bed, finding a loose thread and pulling at it.

  
  


“Hux,” Ren starts.

  
  


“Yes?”

  
  


“Have you anything to--” he gestures at his own face, nearly helplessly.

  
  


“To cover up your beauty marks?” Hux finishes for him.

  
  


“Moles,” Ren corrects.

  
  


Hux snorts, puts down the brush and the small compact. “I am not sure if I'd have anything in your color, Ren,” he says. “We aren't exactly the same shade.”

  
  


He picks up a bottle and shuts his eyes, spraying his face liberally, for whatever reason.

  
  


Afterward, the General searches his cabinets, going through bottle after bottle, until he picks up a tube.

  
  


He carries that tube and a brush to where Ren sits on the bed. Hux stands, perfectly straight, between Ren's parted legs. “Well now,” he says, uncapping the container and dabbing some of the cosmetic on the back of his hand. “Let's see what we have here.”

  
  


Hux pokes his tongue out from between his lips when he applies the creamy concealer. Hux is not aware of the habit—and Ren finds it _endearing_.

  
  


Ren is all too aware of how close the General stands, a bony knee prodding at Ren's thigh. The brush is soft on Ren's skin, almost tickling his face. Ren scrunches his nose.

  
  


“Stop that,” Hux chastises, but continues.

  
  


Then, satisfied, Hux backs away.

  
  


“Take a look at yourself in the mirror.”

  
  


And Ren does; he takes large, hurried steps to the fresher, unable to hide his excitement to see how his reflection could have changed.

  
  


The _beauty marks_ —as Hux had called them—no longer stand out so strongly on Ren's face. Instead, they nearly blend in perfectly.

  
  


He's stunned. Without thinking, Ren raises a hand and goes to touch himself.

  
  


Hux stops him, catching his wrist. “Careful Ren,” Hux hisses, “I haven't set the concealer just yet.”

  
  


But he doesn't let go.

  
  


Hux's hand is so very small. It cannot even wrap around the entirety of Ren's wrist.

  
  


Ren lets Hux pull his hand away from his face.

  
  


His eyes trail Hux's back as the other man return to the bathroom, searching through his cabinets once again, finding the first palette Ren had gifted him with.

  
  
  


At the gala itself, both Hux and Ren find themselves lurking at the back of the room. They both have a drink in hand; for Hux, it's his third drink. He does not waste time, pouring the softly favored wine down his throat.

  
  


Hux talks easily.

  
  


Turns out, the two of them scorn pointless galas equally.

  
  


Ren does not bother to hide his easy smile.

  
  


“Who is that?” Ren asks, tilting his head in the direction of the approaching gentleman.

  
  


His hair is brown and close to balding. The man—not military, but a politician—holds himself carefully, as if recovering from a back injury. He may well be recovering from a back injury. In one four-fingered hand, he holds a glass of red wine, dangerously close to his dress blouse.

  
  


“Senator Darius,” Hux greets, familiarity in his voice. “How good to see you once again.”

  
  


“Brendol Jr,” the Senator greets, looking down at Hux. He turns his gaze to Ren. “And who might you be?”

  
  


Before Hux can answer, Ren says, “I'm Ben.”

  
  


“Ben,” Darius says, expecting more. He does not receive more. His blue eyes don't hide how perplexed he is at Ren's casual way of speaking. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  
  


Somehow Ren doubts it.

  
  


_So Hux the Younger still paints himself pretty_ , the Senator thinks. _Disgraceful for a man--_

  
  


He does not get farther into his thoughts. Barely moving a finger, Ren tilts Darius's glass with the Force and the red wine spills all over his shirt.

  
  


Hux is able to hide a vicious smile as he hands over a handkerchief, though the Force around him sings of victory. “Oh, my, Senator, how tragic. That will surely stain...”

  
  


Darius excuses himself, scowling and red faced.

  
  


“Nice job, Ren,” Hux says softly, bringing his own drink to his mouth.

  
  


Ren nods, accepting the praise.

  
  
  


It feels almost natural to escort the General to his quarters once the gala is nearly dead.

  
  


The walk beside each other in the halls, shoulders barely brushing. Hux has ingested more alcohol than Ren but it doesn't show. His gait is still infuriatingly even and his back is still ruler stick straight.

  
  


And Hux's cosmetics still look frustratingly perfect.

  
  


The concealer that had been spread over his moles is mostly gone. His habit of touching his exposed face certainly did not help the staying power.

  
  


“That was fun,” Ren admits. Less bloody than his normal definition of fun, but still.

  
  


Hux laughs—actually _laughs—_ and hums.

  
  


Too soon are they in front of the General's quarters.

  
  


Hux presses his palm against the digital screen and opens the port. He freezes before the entrance and turns to face Ren. Hux makes a curious expression, too soft to really belong to the ruthless man, and Ren cannot read his thoughts.

  
  


His hand is soft and warm over Ren's cheek.

  
  


And then Hux's lips brush over Ren's own.

  
  


Chaste, soft, warm—none of which should rightfully be ascribed to the other man.

  
  


And then Hux pulls away.

  
  


“Good night Lord Ren,” Hux says, retreating into his quarters.

  
  


Only after the port slides shut does Ren regain control over himself. His cheeks flush as he processes. His hand moves before his mind is quite finished and caresses the fine durasteel surface of the door.

  
  


“Good night General Hux,” Ren finds himself saying.

  
  
  


 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to @archighoul on tumblr for letting me chat about this headcanon and beta'ing my work !! You're the true hero here.
> 
> Find me @moonmountainman on tumblr !


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